Page 60 of Under the Lies

He’s not here.

At least, according to the bartender I asked.

And I’m not saying he’s lying, I just think he thought I was deranged.

I feel deranged.

I mean, I’m standing in a packed club wearing a penguin onesie and have a cat clutched to my chest after finding a stack of pictures and a cryptic letter in my apartment. If my eyes aren’t a little crazy, I’d be concerned for my state of mind.

And now that I know Noah’s not here, I don’t know what I should do. Lost with where I could go.

Not back to my apartment, that’s for sure. My skin still crawls with the knowledge of a stranger taking photos of me, following me around. Going inside my apartment.

I can’t go home. I don’t feel safe there.

I could’ve gone to Brin’s, but I don’t want this near her. Don’t want to worry her.

The only other place I could think of is my parents’ house. They’re still in Europe so it wouldn’t be too bad, except I hate it there. It’s cold, detached. More like a museum. A house instead of a home.

But I can’t stay on the floor. People keep bumping into and jostling me. Making me want to scream.

It’s too much.

All too much.

This. Here. Now.

I feel myself shutting down like I did when my granddad passed, slipping deep inside myself where emotions are hard to reach. They get stowed away to deal with later.

Right now, I need a plan.

And I need one fast.

Pan hates our new setting, his claws cut into my skin like little hooks.

“I know, baby,” I whisper into his fur. He doesn’t relax.

“Lady.” The bartender who told me Noah wasn’t here, comes back over. Leaning across the bar he snaps, “You can’t stay here with that thing.” He points an angry finger at Pan.

I glare, not caring for his tone. But I don’t have the energy to argue. I don’t even have the energy to stand. So I nod, veering away from the bar and go in search of new refuge.

I move about two steps when the bartender with salt and pepper hair appears. “Sayer.”

I feel myself looking at him, but I’m not really seeing him. Not really focusing on anything.

“It’s me, Hotch.” Is that what his name is? “What’re you doing here? Are you okay?”

“Looking for Noah,” I feel myself say, not feeling my lips move.

“He’s not here.”

“I know.”

Pan squirms in my arms. The music has gotten louder, the crowd rowdier. Hotch watches me retreat even more into myself and his eyes narrow when I jump at the feel of his fingers brushing my arm. “C’mon,” he says gently. “I know where you can wait.”

He leads me off the floor and down a hallway until we get to a dark wooden door. Slowly, he opens it and motions for me to go in.

Stepping into the room, I turn on the light and am greeted with the inner sanctum of Noah Kincaid.

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